


BBCSH 'No Comment'

by tigersilver



Series: BBCSH Shorts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John-centric, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:26:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's John's, is John's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH 'No Comment'

Author: [](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/profile)[**tigersilver**](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/)  
Title: 'No Comment'  
Pairing: Johnlock  
Rating: PG  
WC: 700  
A/N: One of the 'Shorts', these tiny bursts that overtake me mid-squee and interrupt my reading, damn them. Sorry. [Also, this is John-POV, pre-and post the Fall.]

  
  


BCCSH ‘No Comment’ 

Of all things, John hates that everyone always asks him to explain it. Ella, Sally—Sarah. His bloody blog, _expecting_ at him. 

What they don’t seem to see is that he doesn’t _want_ to. Doesn’t _need_ to. _He_ knows, **he** understands, and that’s good enough for him. He’s hated the blog idea from day one and the only reason he persists is that the cases are enjoyable. Relaxing, it is, to neatly write up facts and events, Sherlock sniping on the periphery, and set them down in a sane fashion. Provide proof, as it were, that Sherlock’s just that amazing. Because he is, and that’s all right, and John can be pleased with that singular form of communication concerning them even if he dreads any other, less welcome. 

They don’t see, the fools. And he feels perhaps real empathy with Sherlock for the first time—ridiculously small minds, uselessly fixated on minutia—when they ask him, prod him, goad him, to explain.  It’s a bit of imposition, he feels. Bad manners, always asking. He should set them loose on Sherlock and then they’ll see where they land! 

But…he’s not that cruel, really. Not malicious, nor even Sherlock’s brand of deliberately set-apart-from-all-this attitude. And he can understand the curiosity. He’d be curious as well, he thinks, if he weren’t in the midst always, being there. 

There’d been a film, _Being There_. Funny, how there are aspects John recalls about that which resonate, decades later. And there’d been another, something—something about ‘Love’. A flick Harry had dragged him to, along with Clara, when they were first flapping about each other, blushing and smiling like daft geese and so in love it was vaguely sickening. All sorts, hadn’t it been? Of Love. Love, actually. 

He abhors them—that faceless mass of ‘them’—asking, asking, asking, with their eyes and their lips and their assuming actions. As if their very lives depended upon being enriched by the intimate knowledge of two other’s; as if they’d the god-given right to know. Mycroft is particularly guilty of the last offense. That alone would prevent John from being ever fully at ease with him, even if there weren’t other humps in the road of that acquaintance. Not that he doesn’t appreciate Mycroft in a way. There are traits he shares with Sherlock; they’re brothers. Mycroft, too, is amazing. 

But John hates it. He knows Sherlock believes the vast majority to be blind and stupid, too heedless to look. But they do, for this. They more than look, they invade. Strip him bare with their passing glances, poke his privates as if they had legal entrée to do so. 

It’s _his_. This one small thing. Well, Sherlock’s as well, and it’s a part of the thing as a whole that Sherlock’s the one always attempting to verbalize it and John’s the one always ducking away from the words. Topsy-turvy, that. Funny. Not that he’s not left smiling, proud, pleased, when Sherlock tries. Or, at times tries it on, in that sideways-sly wily manner he’ll take on. Poking away also, gaze glinting light, all a ploy to force John to verbalize; part of his stock-in-trade for witnesses, John thinks.  Tactics, but not shock. Just...silly bugger. It shan't work. John’s not that much of a fool, ta.

But it’s _his_. As it happened, and _still_ his, eighteen months later, and yet _his_ , when he comes home one fine day to a chilly flat, a man stretched languidly on the elderly sofa and a coat carelessly tossed on the floor.  And not _theirs_ , and not for the common delectation, and not fodder nor grist. Chatter or talk. No. _His_. 

His and Sherlock’s and no one may touch it but them.   _Go away, world. Piss off_.

‘He’s back. Home,’ John blogs, very shortly after. ‘As expected.’ 

And grins like a mental patient as he locks down the Comments, disabling them permanently, aware of the sharply fond eyes always on him, noting his every key-tap. Won’t that be a proper turn up for them all, yeah? Silly buggers. Caring buggers, mostly; they mean well, but.

No one touches what’s _his_. 

  
  



End file.
